My mind wanders through alliterated fields of frost-covered firs. The cat has on her winter coat and she is silently stalking sunshine between the strikingly shrinking shadows of suddenly stark trees. Not the firs, they are evergreen.
The lingering lines left by sun-soaked lumber lean and bend across a sea of long-lost leaves. Mostly, cherry and maple. I pine for an oak.
I hide behind routine and repetition.
It is a sunny day forgotten by clouds and heavy rain. It should spark something inside of me. I should rise to seize it. Yet I am weighed down by unknown troubles and those I know all too well. One day a friend, the next day family, and before them more of the same fighting the cancers inside. The future holds more fights and harder fists.
Also: The future ebbs and flows on the ballots of ignorance.
And: The future is all we have. We are reckless with our right to squander it.
The process is always and ongoing. It matters more than anything, and it matters very little.
Very little, indeed.
I am graced by the laughter of little boys and the life that they rush into. I fear to tread, and I am more the fool because of it.
Troubles come and troubles grow, between them breathe the blossoms. Piles are raked of memories, and moving on, and those we could not hold on to. They are best left for little boys with needs for things to jump in. These are the leaves that fall from my tree, reaching up to meet the downward.
The cat yawns. My branches are bare and beautiful.